Never Say Die
by Anjaden
Summary: Sixteen year-old Garsiv is tired of being in older brother Tus' shadow, and is determined to prove himself. But can he survive the real world beyond the palace doors on his own?
1. Chapter 1

**After writing oneshots, I'm finally tackling my first chapter story! Right now this is slotted for about 14 chapters, but that could change as I write more. **

**Yet again I'm writing a Garsiv-centric story...but there are chapters that will be in a certain older brother's perspective. This is an exercise into trying to create a believable history for a character we don't know a lot about, so keep an open mind with me here! Hopefully this will show a plausible backstory for why our favorite middle brother is so ruthless. **

**So here's my first attempt at a multi-chapter fanfic-the Big Project, if you will. I hope you guys enjoy it! Please review, even if you hate it.**

**Betas: Mya Kirne and Juliette06 (who just published a companion piece to Broken Bonds)**

* * *

A knock on his door forced sixteen year-old Garsiv to stop staring—or rather, glaring—out his window.

"Garsiv!"

Persia's second prince rolled his eyes at the ceiling and uncrossed his arms, turning on his heel to cross the room and open the door for his younger brother. Dastan had done some growing recently, but the grin plastered to his face still made him look very boyish. Garsiv leaned his shoulder against the threshold of his door, raising an eyebrow expectantly.

"The guards say the army just entered the city. Uncle Nizam and Tus will be here soon, and Father wants us to be there when they're welcomed back."

Of _course_ he wanted them to be there. Garsiv rolled his eyes again and looked down at the clothes he was wearing, then decided he didn't particularly care if Father approved of his outfit. If it wasn't his clothes, he would find some other trivial matter to chide him for.

"I cannot enter the hallway while you crowd my door, Dastan." His younger brother, sensing that Garsiv was not in the mood to be trifled with, nodded and stepped out of the doorway, allowing Garsiv to brush past him and walk towards the front doors of the palace.

Dastan made his shorter legs catch up with Garsiv's long strides and looked up at him, still giving Garsiv that wide smile of his. "It will be good to have Tus back, right? The army's been at war with Greece for a long time."

Garsiv was not in the mood to hear the obvious. "Really, Dastan?" he asked rhetorically, voice absolutely dripping with sarcasm. "And here I was thinking they rode out just two days ago. Thank you for setting me straight."

The acidity in Garsiv's voice made even Dastan falter.

Garsiv snorted and kept walking. He didn't expect his adopted sibling to understand, at least not yet. Dastan was not old enough to ride out to war, after all.

But Garsiv _was_, and the fact that he had been kept from this campaign was a constant thorn in his side. At sixteen, Garsiv was more than ready to prove himself capable. He would one day be second-in-command of the entire damn empire, he should be out gaining experience. But no, instead Father kept him locked in the palace to sit in mind-numbing lessons, claiming he needed to learn more about strategy and politics before he was ready for actual combat.

Dastan, ever on his adoptive father's side, tried to break the silence: "You can't really blame Fath—"

"Do _not_ even _start_," Garsiv hissed through his teeth, turning to glare at Dastan. The very last thing Garsiv wanted right now was to hear Dastan's voice. "Do _not_ talk about things you don't understand."

Would he ever? Father treated Dastan like the favorite son; _he_ would probably be out on a campaign in less than a year, and he was only fourteen. Garsiv snorted derisively and sped up. "Walk faster, or we're going to be late."

Garsiv heard Dastan sigh behind him, but he ignored it and shoved past a throng of servants to arrive at the stairs outside the palace. Father was already there to welcome his brother and his eldest son home.

When the King's eyes hit him, Garsiv gave the small, expected bow of respect. "Father," he greeted, his voice not betraying his bitterness.

Sharaman nodded to his second son and brushed past him to greet his youngest- Garsiv took the opportunity to let out a quiet sigh and step away. In a matter of minutes his uncle and brother would be riding up to the palace, and Garsiv would be subjected to war stories for weeks; that was enough to make him want to storm back to his room and become a hermit.

But before he could formulate a proper escape plan, Garsiv felt a hand land on his shoulder. Had it been anyone but his father, they would be on the floor, howling for their mother; the second prince _hated_ being touched. He stared resolutely in front of him.

"I know you are upset with me, my son, but do try to be civil when your uncle and Tus arrive." Garsiv bit back any verbal response and merely nodded his head, still not looking at his father.

Apparently, Sharaman found his son's attitude amusing: he chuckled and shook Garsiv's shoulder lightly, then almost-teased, "Garsiv, what have I always taught you?"

"The bond between brothers is the sword that defends our empire," Garsiv quoted back mechanically. He was not interested in a lesson on family and his relationship with Tus, especially when he had heard his father's trite saying most of his life. The words no longer held any meaning for Garsiv, who was now much more interested in using a _real_ sword to defend his empire.

The sound of horns and a roar of approval from the gathered crowd saved Garsiv from hearing the rest of his father's sermon. The King dropped his hand from his shoulder, and Garsiv stepped back some so that his father had adequate room to move in front of him. Garsiv remained at his right shoulder as the door opened, while Dastan assumed his rank in the family hierarchy and moved to stand at Garsiv's shoulder.

Dastan whispered something to him, but Garsiv couldn't hear his little brother over the sudden wave of noise that hit him. Persians had crowded every street in the city to watch the army's return, and their cheers grew only louder as Nizam and Tus rode up to the palace.

Garsiv suppressed a sigh and tuned out the proceedings, going through his part in the affair by memory.

* * *

The next thing Garsiv could clearly recognize was Tus roughly throwing his arm over his shoulders at the victory celebrations. Garsiv chuffed and tried to shove the offending arm off of him, but even with Garsiv's advantage of being taller, Tus was stronger and kept his arm there.

"You look like a man who has been forced into a life of celibacy, little brother," Tus teased. Garsiv growled and managed to shrug Tus off of him. Tus loved pushing his buttons, and tonight Garsiv was even more irritable than usual.

"Can't you go bother someone else?" Garsiv snorted, trying to move away from his brother to find food or something. But Tus was having none of that—he easily kept pace with his fuming brother.

"Why would I do that when your reactions are so entertaining," Tus laughed. He picked up an apple from a nearby table and forced it into Garsiv's hand. "Eat something, cheer up, and for pity's sake stop acting like a child and speak with me."

Just as Garsiv was about to kindly break his brother's nose with the fruit, their father started speaking above the crowd. Garsiv rolled his eyes—this could only mean the start of many speeches and toasts.

"—my honorable son and heir, Prince Tus." The guests clapped at the introduction—which Garsiv had a feeling was probably glad he had only heard half of—and Tus left his brother's side to join his father while he spoke.

Sharaman's middle son sighed and dropped the stupid apple back into the bowl it came from, sullenly watching as his father praised Tus for his efforts in the Persian victory.

He tuned out most of the speech, instead sitting at one of the small tables off to the side with Dastan. His little brother wasn't Garsiv's first choice of company, as Dastan had the annoying habit of providing a running commentary on everything their father said—as per usual, Garsiv didn't bother to react to Dastan's excited babbling.

Garsiv chose the wrong moment to listen to his father again. He'd been trying to gauge if his father was near the conclusion of his speech, but instead he heard: "I'm proud to know that one of my sons will be a great warrior for Persia." He certainly hadn't been talking about Garsiv, or even Dastan.

It was a very good thing Dastan wasn't trying to get a reaction out of Garsiv, because Garsiv knew nothing he could say right now would be kind. It was one thing to be told he wasn't ready for a real war, but it was quite another to have his potential as a Persian soldier completely dismissed.

But Garsiv knew his father never misspoke. He meant what he had just said, and no one—not even Dastan—seemed to notice the slight against Sharaman's younger sons.

He'd had enough of this.

Garsiv stood up, ignoring Dastan's protests that the party wasn't over. He didn't give a damn about this stupid 'party'. He didn't feel any urge to celebrate, and before anyone could protest his rudeness the middle prince slipped out a side door, heading away from the sickening scene and towards the royal stables.

* * *

**So there's Chapter One. See you guys at the update~**


	2. Chapter 2

**Finally, chapter two! Sorry for the wait, real life found me, and this chapter also gave me some problems. But it's now up and published and chapter three (The first chapter from Tus' POV), will be up ASAP.**

**Thanks for the reviews! Now enjoy the chapter that leads up to all of the action in this story~**

* * *

Garsiv stormed down to the stables, and the expression on his face was enough to send the stable hands scattering—undoubtedly to a local bar if he knew anything about the palace's night staff.

Alone with only the family's horses, Garsiv took out the fury that had been building up on his entire walk down here. A bucket of hay went flying across the stable, crashing loudly against the far wall and startling the horses. On a normal night, Garsiv would calm the horses—but tonight was not normal, and the prince slammed his hand into the door of an empty stall , cursing loudly as he felt splinters driving into his hand.

The pain only made Garsiv angrier, and he gripped the stall door so tightly that his knuckles were a stark white contrast to his tanned skin. A bubble of anger and long-held frustrations was surging through him and he desperately wanted to get it out—but not even his usual method of raging around was making the bubble pop.

Garsiv, breathing heavily, let his forehead hit the back of his hand in defeat. He couldn't keep doing this, couldn't keep letting Father coddle him and say he wasn't ready. How was he _ever_ going to be ready if all he ever did was sit around?

The horses were still pawing at the ground nervously, but one whinny—Akram's—stood out above the noise. Garsiv sighed and lifted his head to look at his stallion, and in one single instant the bubble dissipated.

He knew what he was going to have to do to make Father see him how Garsiv wanted him to.

* * *

Looking back on his thoughts from the previous night, Garsiv thought the idea of seeing _anything_ was ludicrous at the moment. A wall of sand had assaulted him by in the early afternoon, leaving the prince with no choice but to stop Akram until the storm died down. Unfortunately, Garsiv had little practice with personally setting up a 'tent'—that was actually a blanket—to take shelter.

After failing several times, Garsiv was in a haphazard…sort-of…tent—he was supporting the roof of it with his hands so that there was room for Akram's head inside with him. He was well-aware there were multiple other solutions to dealing with a sandstorm—but he was far too irate with the whole damn situation to be proactive. So instead he was sitting here, looking ridiculous, and thinking over the past twelve hours.

It had been easy to escape Nasaf. The entire city seemed to be drunk in the spirit of celebrating a victory, and consequently none of the guards noticed that the white stallion leaving from the western gate was carrying a very intricate and expensive saddle—the kind only royalty could buy. The prince had slipped out on his own, his saddlebags packed with dried fruits and meat and other assorted things he'd need for the trek to the border.

The border where slavers had been ravaging small towns and settlements. It had been hard for Father to effectively get news from the scouts because the slavers never stayed in one place for long, but Garsiv was determined—this was his once real chance to prove himself after all, and he would follow the damn slavers into Greece if he had to.

The storm began to subside, and Garsiv quickly stood up and pulled Akram back up onto his feet. The prince's eyes were red and burning from the sand, but he (tried)to ignore it and remounted his horse. He squinted around at the landscape, and realized something key: he had no idea which way to go.

Why had he left again?

No. Nono_no_. Thinking like that was why Father kept him caged up in Nasaf. Out here Garsiv was free to do whatever he wished—and as a bonus, he didn't have to listen to stories about a war he had not been allowed to fight in.

Right. Freedom. Garsiv rolled his shoulders, stiff from his being hunched over for ages, and looked around for anything familiar. The sandstorm had shifted the landscape, and for the first time in his life Garsiv was the one having to do the navigating.

"Well, there's borders in every direction," Garsiv muttered out loud, kicking Akram toward what he thought and hoped) was the west.

Akram, however, was apparently disgruntled about being taken out of his warm home and tossed into the uncomfortable, stinging sand. The horse hardly moved despite Garsiv's heels in his side, and the prince rolled his eyes at the sky when Akram snorted and tosses his head stubbornly.

"You're as grating as Dastan," Garsiv growled, kicking the stallion once more.

Akram, however, seemed to have no more patience with his master than his master had Dastan. The irritated horse reared up onto his back legs, and even Garsiv—normally a very good horse handler—was taken by surprise and plummeted to the ground.

Sand was in his eyes again.

This was going to be a long day.

* * *

**Sorry this one was shorter! It was my transition chapter, so I didn't want to add too much filler just to make it longer. Please review!**

**And be prepared for an irate family when they realize their little hellion's flown the coop...See you then!**


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: Finally, another update! Sorry for the delay, things have been busy for me and for my betas, so it's been hard to get this chapter where it should be.**

**And so here we have the first chapter from Tus' POV. Next chapter is back to Garsiv and…well, not going to tell you too much, but things, they go down. I'm hoping to get chapter four up next week, but I'm moving back to college on the 21****st****, so things will probably be busy for awhile. I promise to get you Garsiv's chapter as soon as I can! And thanks for reading this after so long.**

**Beta'd by Juliette06 and Mya Kirne, as per usual~**

**Just a note: The character named Piyam mentioned in this chapter is an OC of mine, and Garsiv's childhood friend. Normally I don't bring OCs into fanfiction, but I decided to use him in this chapter. **

* * *

To say that Tus was frustrated was an understatement.

The Crowned Prince sat in another dull meeting—and if that wasn't bad enough, Garsiv had yet _again_ chosen his what he _wanted_ to do over what he _needed _to do and never showed up. Sometimes Tus felt like he was Garsiv's father rather than his older brother.

The prospect of dealing with Garsiv while he was acting like a child was grating on his nerves. He knew Garsiv had long since grown out of caring when his tutors (or even their Uncle Nizam) punished him, and even if they did, Piyam—Garsiv's infuriating friend and closest companion—would undoubtedly make a joke of the punishment and undermine the whole point.

Finally the advisors ended their discussions—it was to find his insolent brother.

It hadn't been two minutes when the one voice he didn't want to hear—besides perhaps Dastan's, he was in such a foul mood—came from behind him.

"Tus?"

It was Piyam.

The eldest prince swallowed back an exasperated sigh—he was going to be king after all, he needed to practice patience—and turned to look at Garsiv's friend. Like always, he was briefly nettled by the fact that the sixteen year-old had already outgrown Tus himself.

Tus noticed that the other young man didn't have the characteristic self-satisfied grin on his face. In fact, for the first time since Garsiv had caught badly ill a few years back, Piyam actually looked _worried_.

"Yes, Piyam?"

The boy wasn't as dense as he often acted—Piyam knew of Tus' general disdain for his behavior, and Tus was pleased to see Piyam shift his weight uncomfortably for a moment.

"I think Garsiv has left Nasaf." Piyam stared intently at a spot over Tus' shoulder.

Tus couldn't help but snort derisively. Garsiv was a prince, it wasn't like he could just waltz out of the city without the guards noticing. However Tus decided to humor Piyam for the moment—if only because it would give him some immature pleasure.

"Come, Piyam, we both know Garsiv is just holed up in his quarters, sulking." Piyam gave him a look, clearly not happy Tus was doubting him _now_ of all times, but Tus continued: "What makes you think my little brother has managed to outwit his own guards, as well as the guards all over the city?"

Piyam's expression shifted—now he no longer looked worried so much as he did annoyed that Tus wasn't listening. "I went to his rooms this morning to try and drag him out to an early sparring practice. He didn't come to the door."

Well that wasn't unusual—even Piyam had problems getting Garsiv to socialize when he was feeling particularly stubborn and sulky. But as Tus opened his mouth to point out that perhaps Piyam was just being melodramatic, the young man spoke again.

"Akram is not in the stables, Tus. At first I just thought Garsiv went on a ride, but… "

For the first time since Piyam had spoken to him, Tus felt dread clawing at him. But…no, they were both overreacting. Garsiv was out the city proper somewhere, wanting to be away from his family for the day.

Piyam apparently guessed what Tus was thinking. "Tus…the stable hands swear there are saddlebags missing too."

Garsiv not answering the door for his closest friend, Akram missing and all of Garsiv's guards still at the palace, and saddlebags missing…not even he could completely deny the way the pieces of Piyam's puzzle were clicking together.

Without another word to Piyam, Tus immediately turned and headed straight toward the royals' wing of the palace, intent on solving this for himself—when he got there, he found Majeed, Garsiv's head guard, pounding on his charge's door. So Piyam had voiced his concern to others, or Majeed was putting things together himself.

Tus paused for a moment, but when he realized that not even Majeed was making any headway at trying to get Garsiv to open the door, Tus sent one of Majeed's men off to find the Mistress of the Palace, who would have a key to get inside.

When the soldier returned with the confused woman, Tus sighed. "Open the door."

Garsiv wasn't there, and various things strewn about Garsiv's quarters bore all the signs of quick and haphazard packing. As Majeed started shouting at Garsiv's other guards, Tus moved further into the rooms to see for himself—sure enough, Garsiv's sword and riding boots were missing, and the clothes he'd been wearing at the banquet were in a misshapen pile in a corner, undoubtedly kicked there by disgruntled feet.

"Tus?"

He turned around once again, but this time he found Dastan behind him, not Piyam. His youngest brother, despite a recent growth spurt, looked like a small, scared child right now. News was either traveling fast that Garsiv couldn't be located, or Dastan had been lurking in the shadows when Majeed began yelling.

"Is he really gone?"

Tus badly wanted to say no, that was everything was alright, that Garsiv was just being a jackass and brooding somewhere and would be back to his family by the time the sun had set.

But he knew he couldn't lie to his brother. "Yes. He's gone."

* * *

Tus would never forget the look on his father's face when he and Majeed brought the news of Garsiv's disappearance.

"You're sure he left of his own accord?" Tus glanced sideways at Majeed, waiting for his answer to the King's question.

"Yes, your Majesty. There is evidence he packed quickly in his rooms and left, probably late last night. We've been trying to figure out where he's gone."

Tus shifted his weight slightly as his father silently looked between them—Sharaman would not say it, but the prince _knew_ this was just as much his fault as it was any of Garsiv's guards. He should have been able to tell the moment Garsiv left the celebrations that he would do something foolish.

"Find him, Majeed." The guard bowed and quickly left the room to prepare to ride out.

Tus looked cautiously at his father. "Father—"

"—Yes, Tus, you go too. Bring your brother home."

Tus didn't need to be told twice. He bowed quickly to his father and left to pack. He _would_ bring Garsiv back.

Within an hour Tus, Majeed, and the soldiers they were bringing along were riding out of the city. When they reached the gate, Tus looked over his shoulder at the palace in the distance.

"I'll bring him home, Father."

* * *

**Or will you, Tus?**

**See you guys on the flip side~ (And don't forget to review -winning grin-)**


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